


Glass Jars and Forgiveness

by octocelot



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Making Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octocelot/pseuds/octocelot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius was always better at giving forgiveness, and Albus was always better at taking it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Jars and Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Poke!

The door clicks closed.

Scorpius hears uneven steps and shoes being kicked against the shoe rack. He is sitting on the couch cross-legged, staring at the clock. He is anything but sloppy. Each tick puts him a little more on edge. He counts down the seconds til he's discovered. Maybe this time it'll be thirty.

“Albus.”

The footsteps stop. Scorpius’s breaths are as loud as a sleeping bear and he can only now hear how angry he is.

“Night. Goo’night.” Albus says.

Scorpius takes a breath, doesn't let it go. He counts the seconds to forgiveness. He guesses it’ll be around a hundred this time. He was always the better of the two at forgiving. “Where have you been?”

“About.”

Scorpius looks behind him. Albus is standing there, his button-down untucked and halfway unbuttoned. Scorpius searches for an apology in Albus’s eyes, but doesn't find it.

“Your words are slurring,” Scorpius says.

“Yeah?”

Scorpius stands and walks towards Albus, but Albus takes a step back. And Scorpius, one hand outstretched, puts it at his side again and leans back on his heels. This is not forgiveness so much as resign. “Right,” Scorpius says, eventually. “I don't care.”

That night, Scorpius stares at the ceiling. He can't bring himself to look at Albus who is lying next to him. Scorpius doesn't care, really. He turns on his side, his spine protruding towards Albus’s. The hairs on his skin crave the heat given off by Albus’s body, so Scorpius pulls the blanket higher.

…

The next morning is a Sunday, and Scorpius has nowhere to go. Albus probably doesn't have anything to do either, but Scorpius wouldn't know.

The sun is rising, barely, when Scorpius wakes up. Albus has turned over in the bed and is cradling him, the twisted blankets barely covering the both of them.

Scorpius only now realizes that he hates how Albus sweats at night, and he goes rigid. A second later, he realizes that Albus must be severely dehydrated and needs water. This thought takes control of his limbs.

He untangles himself from his partner and shuffles to the kitchen. It suddenly hits him that he hates how Albus uses his slippers instead of his own.

Scorpius fills a glass and turns to take it back to the bedroom, but stops. He dumps out the glass instead and goes to the window of the apartment, the one that faces east.

He likes the morning because that's the only time he can look at the sun without feeling pain in his eyes. He watches the sun come up and the light filtering through the glass jars.

Scorpius remembers when he and Albus put up those jars. They had just moved in together, and Albus had read that mason jars were a useful thing to have around the home. They used one to hold the writing utensils at their desk, but the others (the many others) had no use. The jars were too small, Scorpius insisted. Why would you put rice in there when you could just keep it in the bag and store it in the pantry?

So, Scorpius sat down and wrote hastily written sentences of his dreams and entertained himself with the idea that Albus and he might travel someday. He folded the slips of paper into little paper planes and put them inside the jars. He put them on the windowsill.

Now, Scorpius sighs, brushing the jars with delicate fingers.

Then he goes to check on Albus.

Scorpius open the door to their bedroom as quietly as he can, but the door is old. It creaks its protest.

The blinds are closed, so morning light creeps into the room in little slits, the light traveling through whichever cracks it can find and wherever it can. But it stops inches away from illuminating Albus’s spine.

Albus is turned away from the window, hugging his pillow and curling into it like it’s a teddy bear.

So Scorpius climbs back into bed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys would like me to write something in particular, let me know in the comments! I'd love the inspiration!


End file.
